His jaw muscles worked, as if he were biting back his reply.
I reached down and pulled the Xbox power cord from the wall.
“Hey!”
“You got your sister pretty worked up tonight. You need to learn to think before you talk, son. You’re grounded from video games for a week. What is happening to Otis right now is up to God, not you or me. Maybe you need some time to think about what you said to Hannah.”
Brandon stood up, his hands balled into fists. “That’s not fair!”
I wrapped the cords around the Xbox and tucked it under my arm. “Neither is life.”
I set the Xbox down on the dining room table.
Jayne pointed to the video game. “What’s that all about?”
“Do you know what he told Hannah?” My anger still quaked in my voice. “He told her Otis shot himself. And then he told her Otis went to hell. He’s lucky all I did was take away his Xbox.”
“Did you talk to him about Otis? About what he’s feeling?”
That stopped me in my tracks. Why had I not been willing to talk through Otis’s death with my son? Why had that thought never even occurred to me?
Jayne poured two cups of coffee and handed me one.
“He’s been quiet all day,” she said. “I think he’s taking Otis’s death pretty hard.”
Her words hit me like a two-ton weight. Ever since I had received word about Otis, I had been running around, tending to arrangements, talking to everybody but my own kids. And in the process I had managed to forget that Brandon probably had been closer to Otis than anyone in our family, including me.
Otis worked as the church groundskeeper, and as soon as Brandon was old enough, Otis asked if he could hire him as a part-time assistant. The powers that be on the church board nixed the idea, so I worked out a compromise. Brandon worked with Otis on Saturdays, and I paid him myself. My son had been working as Otis’s helper every week for the better part of a year, but I hadn’t taken the time to reach out to him, to see how he felt about Otis’s death.
I tucked the Xbox back under my arm and headed back toward Brandon’s room.
No light shone under the door.
Surely he didn’t go to bed this early.
I knocked softly.
“Brandon? Are you awake?”
No answer.
Was he asleep or did he just not want to talk? I waited a little while, trying to decide what to do. Maybe sleep is the best thing for him right now. I leaned the Xbox up against the door.
I’ll talk to him tomorrow.
Chapter 8
Sunday, October 15
Sunday morning didn’t begin well.
Sometime during the night, Brandon retrieved his Xbox from outside his bedroom. I knew I had to talk to him—apologize for last night—but with my mind so fixed on the memorial service, I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
I left for the church long before he got up.
I began that Sunday morning, hoping to use Otis’s death to awaken the congregation to who they were and who God wanted them to be in Christ. Maybe not the best plan I could have come up with. All I knew was that I wanted to challenge them to incarnate Christ to the world around them and to explain to them what I meant by that.
I was realistic about how much support to expect. I had no grand vision that the entire congregation would rush forward and commit themselves to a radical expression of Christianity. At a guess, a 10 percent response would be a success.
If I could just persuade a solid nucleus of folks, I would be happy.
Instead, I alienated almost everyone.
The memorial service was low key. There was no casket because Otis had donated his body to science. Instead, Jayne placed an eight-by-ten framed portrait of Otis on the communion table. He’d also requested no flowers, asking that any money be given to Incarnation’s missions fund. Even so, there were a few wreaths at the front of the sanctuary. My friend and Otis’s former employer, Philip Treadway, had sent a particularly large spray.
When I looked out over the pews, I was pleased to see Philip seated in the back row. It was probably the first time he had stepped inside the door of a church in more than a decade.
As for the congregation, I couldn’t take their temperature, and that made me nervous. Usually I can gauge how people respond by reading their expressions. But for the most part, the people looked stone-faced.
I hadn’t picked up any gossip about the “real” reason Otis killed himself. Nor had I heard any talk about how scandalous it was to have a church member commit suicide.
And some of the people seemed genuinely sad.
Halfway through the service, we had an “open microphone” time for people to come up and share stories about how Otis touched their lives. The silence that followed quickly morphed from uncomfortable to awkward to embarrassing. That’s not unusual. People find it difficult to stand before a large group and talk about personal feelings. But eventually a few came up and said some nice things about Otis.
As I got up to speak, my hands were clammy and my mouth was dry. I felt like a seminary student giving his first sermon in homiletics class. I had lost count of the number of funerals I had presided over in fifteen years as pastor here, but I had never felt like this.
Was I worried about what I was going to say?
Or about how they were going to respond?
Too late to be concerned about either. I had something to say, and I was going to say it, regardless of the consequences. I gripped the pulpit and looked out over a church full of people.
“Otis left detailed instructions for his memorial service,” I began. “And he specifically requested there be no eulogy. Nevertheless, it’s customary at a memorial service for the pastor to offer some words of comfort to the family.
“But Otis had no family, aside from us.
“And I’m not sure how much comfort I can or even should offer. Rather than this being a time for that, I think it needs to be a time for soul searching. Indeed, the best way to bring meaning from Otis’s suicide is by learning something from this tragedy.”
I unfolded the letter that Otis sent me.
“I want to read something to you. This letter is from Otis. It arrived a day after he died.”
Dear Pastor Steve,
I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me.
I’m sorry for doing this. I know I’m letting you down. I’ve tried to hold on, but I just can’t stand the loneliness anymore.
I know Jesus will forgive me.
I’m tired, and I want to go be with Him.
Love,
Otis
As I read the letter, I glanced briefly at the congregation. I could tell by the expressions on their faces that Otis’s words were making an impact. What kind, I wasn’t sure.
“This letter broke my heart.” I squelched my emotions. “Otis called me the day before he died, wanting to talk. I was busy that day, and I put him off. Maybe I didn’t pick up on the desperation in his voice. Or maybe I didn’t want to inconvenience myself.
“Whatever the reason, I failed Otis.
“Shortly after Otis’s death, someone asked me a question I couldn’t answer. And that question’s been haunting me ever since.”
I gripped the pulpit as if it were about to fly away from me and then spoke softly but clearly.
“How is it possible for someone to be a member of Incarnation Church and die of loneliness?
“I can’t wrap my mind around that. Were none of us close enough to Otis to help him when he needed it most? Was there nobody in this church he could talk to or confide in? As church groundskeeper and custodian, Otis ministered to us in many ways.
“Why didn’t we minister to him?
“We’re an affluent church, yet Otis lived in a rent-assisted apartment. We go out to fine restaurants, but Otis got by on food stamps. We have our social circles. However, Otis’s best friend was his little dog, Skeeter.
“Is it possible that we, in our
comfort and prestige, never let Otis join the club? Is it possible that we worshiped with Otis every week but never invited him into our lives? Is it possible that he embarrassed us?”
I shook my head and looked down at the pulpit.
“I don’t have an answer for that.”
My next words caught in my throat, and I had to pause before I could get them out. “Why do we gather here each week if not to be the expression of the body of Christ? And if we are the body of Christ, how did we let someone like Otis slip through the cracks?
“There is a famous quote by Teresa of Avila, a Christian of centuries ago. She said, ‘Christ has no body now on earth but ours. Ours are the only hands with which He can do His work. Ours are the only feet with which He can go about the world. Ours are the only eyes through which His compassion can shine forth upon a troubled world.’
“Our name is Incarnation Church. We are the body of Christ collectively. And I’ve come to believe that as individual Christians, we are called to incarnate Jesus Christ to the world personally.
“The incarnation of Christ—Christ among us here on earth—did not end when Jesus ascended into heaven. Jesus said, in the Gospel of John 20:21, ‘As the Father has sent Me, I also send you.’
“Jesus is living in our day and is doing the things He did when He walked this earth. He is doing them through those Christians who are willing to accept the responsibility to be who they are called to be as followers of Christ.
“We’re not just to respect Christ. Anyone can do that. We’re not just to imitate Christ in the sense of asking ourselves, when faced with a choice, ‘What would Jesus do?’ We’re here to incarnate Christ, to let Him live within us by His Holy Spirit to affect everything we do.
“That’s the kind of Christians I want us to be.”
As I surveyed the congregation, my heart sank. I saw only two people who were clearly connecting with my message—my wife, Jayne, and Clifton Stoner’s wife, Flora.
I held up my hands, as if apologizing. “Look, I’m not here to cast blame for Otis’s death, and I mean that. I am challenging all of us, the people of Incarnation Church, to learn to live with and in the presence and power of God.
“I want us to be Jesus to the world around us.
“Now, you might be sitting there thinking that your pastor’s crazy, that I’ve gone off the deep end and become some kind of nut. That’s okay.
“But for those of you who are willing to begin to live as Jesus lived, we will meet in the fellowship hall at eleven forty-five.”
Then I made the mistake of quoting Matthew 11:15, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear!” In retrospect, it must have sounded self-righteous to some and insulting to others.
I closed in prayer and stood at the back to greet the people. I received the usual “Great sermon” and “I enjoyed that” comments. But quite a few people didn’t say a word as they left.
Their eyes, however, spoke volumes.
It was eleven thirty by the time everyone had left the sanctuary.
Jayne took Brandon and Hannah home, and I hurried over to the fellowship hall to see how many had accepted my challenge.
I sat at a table in the empty fellowship hall.
The wall clock read eleven forty-five.
A couple of hundred people had attended the memorial service and heard my “incarnation challenge.”
Not a single person had responded.
I decided I would give it a few more minutes when I heard a voice behind me.
“No one’s coming. You know that, don’t you?”
I didn’t need to turn around. I knew Clifton Stoner’s voice all too well.
Clifton walked across the large room and stood beside my table.
“You really hurt yourself today, Pastor. I told you not to get on a soapbox, but you couldn’t resist. If you want people to follow your leadership, you can’t throw mud at them. I had no idea what was going on with Otis. Neither did they.
“We each carry our own burdens and can’t be nursemaids to every down-and-out person who has a problem.”
I was about to respond when another familiar voice chimed in.
“You’re wrong.”
This time, I did look around.
Clifton Stoner’s wife, Flora, stood in the doorway.
A tall, imposing woman with silver hair and a regal appearance, Flora Stoner was one of the kindest, most gracious women I have ever known. Although she and Clifton were easily the wealthiest couple in the church, she remained unaffected by her social status. In fact, if anyone in the church already lived out the life of Christ day by day, it was Flora. Flora Stoner was one of a handful of people in the church I could always count on for help, even if the job was tedious and unglamorous. She wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty and serve others.
Flora came over and rested her hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t let the blame fall at your feet alone, Stephen. Many of us knew”—she shot a glance at her husband—“or should have known, what was going on with Otis. And you’re right. We did nothing.”
Stoner shook his head and flipped his right hand, dismissive of his wife’s remarks. “The fact remains, nobody’s taking you up on your challenge. What do you plan to do now?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t know.”
Chapter 9
In years gone by, when people in a church were displeased with their pastor, they would gossip about him behind his back. Occasionally you’d hear rumors, most often coming from a “friendly” parishioner who said something like, “I thought you ought to know what so-and-so is saying about you.”
Those were the good old days. In the era of modern technology, the preferred method of delivering pastoral criticism is via e-mail. It is a much more efficient means of letting an errant minister know he has crossed a line. No need for a potentially uncomfortable face-to-face. A quick e-mail or text message, with a cc addressed to key elders or deacons, of course, would do the trick.
Now a pastor can be roasted at the speed of light. I had barely walked in the parsonage door when my phone buzzed. The text was short and to the point.
IT WAS UNFAIR OF YOU TO BLAME US FOR OTIS’S DEATH.
I didn’t think I had quite blamed anybody for Otis’s death, but evidently some took it that way. I know I used Otis’s death as a way to challenge them to go deeper spiritually, and I wasn’t being Christ to them by closing with that “ears to hear” remark, but I wasn’t willing to admit I totally messed up.
More e-mails and texts flooded my phone, most all of them variations on the same theme. By the time I had walked from the front door to my home office, the general opinion of my incarnation challenge was fairly clear, and it wasn’t good.
As the day went on, messages continued to trickle in like hand-counted election results. In all fairness, the response wasn’t entirely negative. But even those who “supported” the idea did so from the safe position that this would be a great thing for someone else to do. The senior citizens felt I had given a great challenge to the young people. The younger crowd thought my ideas could best be implemented by the older folks. The parents with young children said it would be a great thing to do—someday.
With each e-mail, each text, each social media message, my mood darkened a little bit more. I felt like Elijah must have after Jezebel threatened his life. Elijah ran and hid, but then he asked God to let him die. He was convinced that he was the only one of God’s prophets left.
I didn’t have the luxury of running away and hiding. And although I was depressed, a death wish was over the top.
But I honestly thought about resigning.
I was in my twenty-fourth game of computer solitaire by the time Jayne brought me a grilled cheese sandwich and diet cola. The sky outside my office window had changed from rich blue to a splash of gold and red.
“I thought you might be getting hungry.” She handed me a tray. “You’ve been in here all afternoon.”
“Thanks.” I too
k the food and set it on my desk.
“You coming out anytime soon? The kids would like to see their dad for a few minutes today.”
I kept staring at the card game on my monitor. “A little later, maybe.”
“Hanna’s taught Skeeter some tricks. She’d like to show you before she goes to bed.”
I nodded as I dragged the ace of hearts to the upper left of the screen.
Jayne came up behind my chair and massaged my shoulders. One of the things I loved about her was that she knew when her touch would be more powerful and comforting than her words.
“I’ve been here fifteen years. You’d think that by this time I’d at least have a few people who would follow my leadership.” I dragged a four of clubs onto one of the columns of cards on my screen.
“You do.”
I looked up at her. “Name one.”
She hesitated.
“I thought so.”
“How about me?”
“You’re the pastor’s wife. You don’t count.”
“Flora Stoner, then.”
Jayne was right. Flora Stoner was as strong a supporter as I had ever had in the church, not to mention that she was Jayne’s dearest friend. Unfortunately, her husband, Clifton, was the biggest thorn in my side.
“She and Clifton cancel each other out.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. Flora can have a pretty strong influence on Clifton when she wants to.”
I nodded. “Okay, I’ll give you that. But she’s still just one person.”
“There are others. They might not be vocal, but they’re there.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
Jayne didn’t say anything. She just leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. She knew me better than anyone else. And she’d heard me say those words before. Jayne knew arguing was pointless. For one thing, I rarely meant it when I talked about resigning. It was my way of wallowing in self-pity. Usually, after a day or so, the sun would come out and the clouds of depression would evaporate. All would seem right with the world, and I would be eagerly planning some other way to reach the world.
In His Place: A Modern-Day Challenge for Readers of In His Steps Page 4
